


Barlights and Pretty Girls

by burningavenues



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Vodka, alcohol pretentionisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6065488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burningavenues/pseuds/burningavenues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two nights in the life of DD, a bartender at Orlov's in Calgary. </p><p>Inspired by the real deal but you're too unique for me ever to write you properly. I tried. Bitch at me in the group chat later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barlights and Pretty Girls

**Author's Note:**

> To CHL
> 
> I love you, and this is half your birthday present because I love and also, I'm sometimes a little shit and I'm dragging everyone I know down this hockey fanfic spiral. Also because I love you and the fastest text reply I've ever gotten from you came with the correct answer of OVECHKIN. And then vodka.  
> If you don't click on all the links I embed in the fic, you're missing out on half the fun. This was a research writer's dream.
> 
> LOVE FROM THE CH  
> STEPH
> 
> To AHL- yours is coming later, hers was just more fun to write. And less complicated. Yours is started, and coming later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday present for a sibling, if your last name doesn't look like Lemon to an American, you probably won't be interested. But there's a solid amount of easter eggs in here and read it anyways. Also, I'm funny on every second Tuesday and sometimes Friday nights, so there might be some humor in here for you too. 
> 
> But the easter eggs- I'm so proud of all my easter eggs.
> 
> A day in the life of DD, a bartender with a vodka specialty and a love of NHL hockey.  
> *edited for continuity errors and well ao3 or me deleted the smoother ending (probs me and I'm ashamed of myself, 4000k words and continuity errors what even)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my dearest CHL-
> 
> Because I love you, and because I love you a lot, and because this was funny as hell to write. Also, the other chapter is about 1/5 finished because I have a life and if you need to know what it all entails, ask mom to tell the beckham booty story of my hockey team. Followed by his age.
> 
> Also, if you don't click on all the links, I'll be sad because this was fun to research and fun to write. And based partially on fiction and partially on truth. 
> 
> AHL, yours is coming later, this one was just more fun to write and her favorite player is Ovechkin. Don't worry, I haven't changed the phone contact names yet.

Something DD had learned from her [obviously favourite][sic] sister is that there's two kinds of Hockey Crushes- one, a hockey player that you love to watch them play because holy hell, they're phenomenal at hockey. Two, there's also hockey players that are phenomenally attractive. Usually, it was impossible to blur the lines between the two of them because most professional hockey players that made her weak in the legs to watch were roughly a 0.5 on the Chris Scale. Some were special snowflakes like Tyler Seguin and were definitely in both categories (plus the third- you have tattoos, dogs, and [solid instagram account](https://www.instagram.com/p/7eW36pk2YU/?taken-by=tseguin92), marry me now), and others could have been [secret porn stars.](http://sunsetsandsandydreams.tumblr.com/post/139615624640?is_related_post=1) You never knew what you were getting when you googled NHL stars, past or present.

||

DD didn’t always love her job- case in point being the wasted American businessman grumbling two feet to her left about how the Caps didn’t deserve to lose to a “fucking weak Canadian team” and that “fucking Gadreau needs to get taken out at the boards.”

Smile and nod, bitches, smile and nod.

It also meant that when American Whiner raised his head away from his crappy Bud Light (not even the lime kind) and glanced at her, including her nice black shirt, she had to force the glare down. And fuck, she was already pissed. It was ten-thirty, the bar had been busy because it was a home game tonight and she’d barely seen anything more exciting than the replays after a goal was scored. Also, bag skates were a bitch and she swore her coach was on his man period. And she had a fucking essay due in another language on Monday and she had barely started the translation of everything.

Her face probably wasn’t anywhere near tip-worthy expression right now. Resting bitch face compounded by all the unholiness of tonight.

But whiner made eye contact with her, and she had a job to do. “Can I get you another drink?” she asked, ignoring the one-third full glass in front of him. His lips turned up, probably trying to look sexy. 

Nope. Diss her team, in her house, on this, the day that the Calgary Flames finally beat The Washington Capitals, a team of actual Consistently Good Hockey Players, and he could be Ryan Gosling and she’d still think he looked like [Ovechkin on an average day, apparently.](http://sunsetsandsandydreams.tumblr.com/post/139655273445/i-also-dont-understand-how-he-can-go-from-a-05) American Whiner was drinking a poor man's beer in a rich man's liquor bar, he was getting nothing but his poor man's beer from her.

Whiner’s stupid expression hadn’t left his face. “What does the barwoman suggest?”

Oh, for the love of fuck. _Roofies,_ she thought furiously. _Roofies, because fuck you._ “Sourpuss shots. Straight.”

If his eyebrow went any higher, he’d have a younger hairline. “Is that a suggestion for now, or for later tonight?”

Normally, she’d be able to grimace sweet enough and distract them enough that she could compose herself. Not tonight. Not when she herself was exhausted, had noodles for quads, and couldn’t watch her favourite players actually win for once. So she took a breath and thought encouraging thoughts- _Can’t kill the customer, murder is illegal, there’s no NHL in prison._

Fine. “Actually, come to think of it, have you ever tried a Palm Bay?”

The man took a sip of his drink. “Nah, I’m not into coolers.”

She smiled sweetly, and probably looked convincing this time around. _Bullshit, you don't. You're drinking a regular Bud Light._ “Nah, they’ve got a newer product, and it’s a frozen Palm Bay. I know what you mean,” she said, dropping her voice half an octave. “It’s like, a total chick drink, but let me tell you- on employee tasting night, it was my Boss’ favourite, and he’s 6’4’’ and 220 pounds. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Whiner perked up. “Oh, you mean Shane?”

No, her other 220 pound, 6’4’’ boss with the fitness goals of a Swedish weightlifter. “Yeah, that’s him! Do you come in here often?”

“Once or twice a week, usually when there’s a good game on. Tonight was a letdown, though. Total shitter.”

 _Do you fucking realize that you’re in fucking Calgary?_ “I don’t know, Ovechkin was looking a little off. He didn’t seem to be in the right spot to make a decent play half the time. Do you know what you’d like?”

His eyes went south for too long to be ‘accidental.’ _Asswipe._ “So… Palm Bay," he started, his eyes finally back up at her face. "Is there any way I could, like, get it with a shot of gin or something?”

If DD was allowed to laugh at the bargoers, she would. “I can make it,” she replied. _But it'll taste like shit. Fucking[macho macho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-4uV-CdT1o) types._

Vodka might have worked, but she wasn't in the mood to tell him that.

She left him and made the drink but still managed to make one mistake- looking at the clock. Thursday nights meant the bar closed at one am , and that left her a whole three hours to go. She could cry.

||

DD knew Orlov’s was popular, somewhat classy, and served good vodka, but she didn’t realize how good until Alexander fucking Ovechkin stumbled through the door with a batshit expression on his face and made eye contact with her, the lone bartender at eleven-thirty on a weeknight. Thursday night, and look what happens.

She was proud of herself for only freezing for three seconds before waving to him from behind the bar and motioning for him to go left, towards the the private rooms. Not that he listened- Alexander Ovechkin apparently didn’t do nonverbal cues and walked right up to her. The door chimed again, letting in four others. She didn’t recognize all of them, but when she spotted Nicklas Bäckström and his long flow and tragically unattractive Swede face, she guessed she’d gotten part of the Caps team in her bar.

“Hi,” she greeted, trying to decide if this was the Russian Drinking Club, plus Bäckström because Ovie and him were rumoured to be codependent. She didn’t bother to pretend she had no idea who he was, and was already walking out from behind the bar because the two VIP rooms in Orlov’s were locked unless there was a reservation. “Let me take you to the VIP sector. Is just the five of you, or are there more coming?”

Ovechkin grinned brilliantly, and the gap in his front teeth made her heart jump. She’d have to do something about her hero worship if she wanted to behave herself like a proper adult and not like a puck bunny. But damn, his wrister was gorgeous and she wanted it.

“I love Canada! Everybody know who you are. Who I am,” he corrected himself. “Where is the VIP area?” 

Bäckström moved up beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and grimaced in apology. “There might be a few more coming,” he said, a resigned tone in his voice, “so could you get us a table for eight or so? Some kind of corner booth or something. Do we need the VIP space here?”

She shrugged. “In all honesty, Orlov’s makes it’s money from the high class Vodka we sell, not from the amount of people that come in. Probably not, since it’s a Thursday night and the hockey game has been over for over two hours. I can sit you in either a private room, in a closed off section, or in the corner over there. I need to warn you, I’m the only worker left and nobody can serve you if you take the private room.” 

He glanced at the four others, presumably all Russians with the way they weren’t paying attention to the conversation but instead talking fast, high paced and Russian together. “Bar seats and a corner booth. Alex found out third or fourth hand that there’s this bar in Calgary that serves authentic Russian vodka, so bring out your best.” His grimace returned, probably thinking about how embarrassing they were all going to get by the end of the night. 

DD grinned in return. “Trust me, you’ve found it.”

||

Ovechkin, she found out, was not a seven year old with a sugar high and a penchant for inappropriate jokes like half the internet wanted to make him sound like. If the NHL was a university, he’d be that Asian or Indian kid competing for one of the top ten for grades in the world and he’d also be really quiet. He'd make jokes, but half the time they sounded like he just barely remembered to make the joke and so it was a Canadian winter joke in a serious tone with a serious expression. They were still okay but easy to miss if she didn’t have siblings with really pathetic humor. Especially humor that didn’t work if you were texting people, which they were. One overseas, two in eastern Canada, and her, a pitiful one day's drive from her parents.

Sometimes, it felt like she never left the house.

When Ovechkin carefully ordered the imported Absolut (she'd shown him the Russian label), she remembered that it was all because English hurts to talk. She’d know, she had a foreign language for her degree and sometimes, she couldn’t help but think English was an utterly stupid language to have the nickname as an ‘International Language.’ Sure, it’s easy to learn and hard to screw up beyond comprehension, has a great vocabulary, but English grammar is dumb. He/she/it does, has done, did, will do, would do, could do, could have done, could be doing, ect, ect, ect. The list could go on for ages and for a language to have that many tenses is stupid without proper cases.

Because Orlov’s was a quiet bar after about eleven in the evening, Christina decided she, as the lone worker that night, could do what she wanted. If that meant come out from behind the bar much more often than her partially antisocial self normally would, then yes, she’d do it.

She literally had her all time favourite hockey player in the bar she worked for and was the solo, late shift worker. Sue her.

Nicklas Bäckström was also more animated in Swedish than English, and apparently Ovechkin did understand a little bit, judging by the comments that went back and forth that weren't Russian. Not to say Bäckström didn't know Russian- he was also joining in on the conversation in Russian. DD decided Bäckström was more of a genius than he let on, but his taste in liquor left a little to be desired. He’d asked for a bottle of Belvedere after seeing it on the shelf behind her and she judged him hard for it. In her opinion, it’s an okay vodka, but it’s also European vodka and smoother than actual Russian vodka. Definitely not a hard core Russian vodka. Good thing Ovechkin apparently didn't care.

When she overheard Ovechkin say something in Swedish, or try to and stammer and stammer until he switched back to Russian, she couldn't help but think that the two of them had either the best bromance or the best kept gay secret in the world. When Bäckström replied in what sounded like flawless Russian, telling Ovechkin that he needs to spend part of the next summer in Sweden with him, she still wasn't sure. 

II

The night progressed until half an hour later, four other Washington Caps had wandered into the bar. She recognized TJ Oshie from all the times her siblings had sent photos of attractive NHL players, barely recognized Carlson without the terrible mop of a flow he used to have, and one of the other two could have been the third assistant captain and she wouldn’t have known. She lived in Calgary, give her a break. 

Because pouring cheep beers and lame vodkas got boring after a while, DD got her kicks in underhanded ways. She sent Oshie with a shot of Stolichnaya for himself and Ovechkin when he asked for a fancy-ass brand (he didn’t recognize the taste and just said it was an okay kind, which was true but he missed the joke) but one of the other Russians, who introduced himself in a thick Russian accent as Dmitry Orlov, got it when she poured him a shot of [Putinka vodka](http://www.wsj.com/articles/SB118039981514116698) in front of him.

He struggled for something to say before glancing at her face and deflating. “Joke?” he asked, a pleading expression in his eyes.

She took pity on him and used her three semesters of Russian to try and go through a conversation. “No, serious. I’ve heard all Russians love Putin and all Russians love his vodka.”

Orlov’s head wasn’t the only one to turn. DD definitely had the ability to speak quietly, but one of the other Russians on the team overheard her as he walked to the bar. This one elbowed Orlov (she’d never get over how there was an NHL player with the same name as her bar and she didn’t know it) to make room and glanced at the bottle of Putinka.

“Put that away,” he said. “Great man, terrible taste in vodka.” In Russian. She fully understood it. She’d never regret her university degree as long as she lived.

“Give it to Sanja,” Orlov suggested, a ruthless look in his eyes. “What did you give to TJ?”

She laughed. “[Stolichnaya.](www.foodrepublic.com/2014/04/25/russian-vodka-taste-test-putting-6-brands-to-the-ultimate-test/)”

The new one laughed after a moment, but Orlov looked confused.

“Lenin’s back hairs,” DD explained, and he got it.

“A poet’s drink,” Orlov responded.

“Exactly. Even I think it’s a boring drink.”

Other Russian glanced at her. “What do you think is a good vodka?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, Absolut. [Zyr](http://www.miaminewtimes.com/restaurants/david-katz-of-zyr-vodka-6332070) if I'm fancy. [Belvedere](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belvedere) when I’m in a sad mood. Russky Standart isn’t horrible. We have some kind of stock of almost every Russian brand you can think of. But I'm sorry, I'm Canadian, I need my vodka to be better than just ['swallowable.'](https://www.quora.com/What-is-the-most-popular-vodka-in-Russia)”

“Khortitsya?” 

DD finally had enough of not knowing who he was. “Sorry, I live in Calgary and I couldn’t recognize anyone who doesn’t play for the Flames. I seriously couldn’t tell you who the goalie is for the Canucks right now. Are you Kutnetzsov or someone else?”

He looked amused. “Stanislav Galiev.”

“Okay, nice to meet you. I’m Christina, my future degree is in Russian, and we might have a bottle of Khortitsya in the back. Do you want me to go look? It’s a Ukrainian vodka, right?”

Galiev looked uncomfortable. “Sorry, you take Russian at a unviersity?”

“I’m finishing my second year of Russian at the university here.”

Orlov gave a low whistle. “Do you have Russian parents?”

“No, they’re actually Swiss. I don’t speak Swiss though.”

Silence for a moment. Then- “Your Russian… is very good.” Orlov finally said. 

She grinned. “Thanks. My teacher thinks it’s shit.”

“Your teacher is shit.”

“Sometimes, I feel the exact same way. Do you want me to look for your vodka? The way it works is we import crates of vodka every year, and my boss always orders a crate of random vodka brands. I think I saw some Khortitsya last time I took inventory, but I could be wrong.”

Galiev didn’t care. “Russky Standart is just fine.”

“Sure. You?” She asked, addressing Orlov.

He laughed. “Smirnoff.”

Even DD could judge him for that. She kept a blank face, and went for two different bottles. Russky Standart was kept on the top shelf, and it was a bit of a joke in the bar. She needed to get the stool to reach it (fuck everyone, 5'6'' is taller than the average Canadian woman), but Smirnoff was kept hidden in a cabinet below the shelf because Shane kept it stocked for the unrefined and uneducated. She deliberately poured the Standart first with a careful hand, passed it to Galiev with a smile, and then tipped the Smirnoff into the shot glass with a careless touch.

"Why," DD asked. "Why would you ask for Smirnoff when it's not a Russian brand, it's not the cheapest brand, and it's not the nicest brand?"

Orlov shrugged. "You get used to the American way."

"No, you don't. Smirnoff is only consumed by uneducated, not when you have an actual selection with the authentic Russian labels. Try again, I don't care if it's one of the English bullshit brands, but not Smirnoff."

She belatedly remembered that Russians were also great at being little shits when Orlov replied with a smile, "[Grey Goose.](http://www.bacardilimited.com/our-brands/grey-goose-vodka)"

And, because Shane was also an asshole who knew that Lorde made it a popular brand, it was also top shelf.

||

Alexander Ovechkin eventually wandered over to the bar, and didn't even bother to start talking in English. He just jumped directly in Russian, which was always disorientating. Left to her own devices, she'd revert back to thinking in English and then always took a moment to switch languages. She rolled his words over in his head and decided that he'd asked her for the most authentic Russian drink she had.

She smiled. "I keep my favourite hidden in the cupboard." DD pulled out the Smirnoff, and Ovechkin's deadpan look was worth it.

“I’m kidding,” she told him, and reached under the bar. “Is this one acceptable?” It better be. Zelyonaya Marka was the good stuff, and even though DD was technically an uneducated foreigner, she’d been informed by her Russian Lit teacher that her taste in Vodka was good.

It wasn’t. Ovechkin glanced at the green label and was starting to look disappointed. “No,” he finally replied in English, which annoyed her. Fuck him, her Russian was nicely conversational now and that was rude.

She sighed. “Name your favourite brand and we probably have it.”

“Marusya. Where are you from?”

“British Columbia,” she replied, switching back to English because honestly, she had no idea how to say that in Russian. Marusya was definitely in the back, in the crate. "I'm going to have to go back for Marusya, I know we don't keep it up front. It doesn't sell well at all with Canadians or Americans," she admitted. "I'm told it's too sharp."

“Ah, only if you're not used to it. Your parents are Russian?” he asked, a curious tone replacing his normal flat tone.

Oh, the difference between second language and mother tongue were amazing. "No, they're Swiss. I'm taking [Russian at the university here.](http://www.ucalgary.ca/admissions/russian)"

He tilted his head. "You don't have an American accent."

"I'm Canadian, but my roommate is Russian. She mocked me until I could sound like I was from Saratov."

"That's southern Russia, not Siberia."

"You're from Moscow!" She protested. 

"Psh, Moscow is the best. Tell me why you're studying Russian."

DD shrugged. "Russian culture is very untouchable and interesting to me. There's nothing like it. You have your own language, your own tough man culture, and you make great vodka. I started bartending because the Great Russian Vodka came up in class, and then I found out about Orlov's. I get a lot of Russians coming through here, and I get a lot of great stories from all of them."

"Oh? Like?"

She told him about the one time she'd gotten an older man in the bar, roughly forty years old, who told her about the time when the Russian ruble was so low, people used vodka as currency. You couldn't get the plumber to do anything until you said you'd pay him in vodka. So he'd started brewing his own home vodka, sold it in used pickle jars, and got by well until Moscow ran out of sugar and yeast to make the moonshine. Luckily for him, it didn't last long, but there were a few times when he started wondering if he could make vodka out of hand sanitizer.

Ovie shrugged. "My mother could tell similar stories."

And this, this was where the difference between Hockey Crush and Hockey Player Crush came in. If she had a crush on Ovie (ew, no), she'd ask for stories from his mom. Instead, she appreciated him as a person, but she wanted to hear his hockey stories. "Nah, I'm curious- lockout year, what was it like to go back and play for your home team?"

He shrugged. "Frustrating at first, because I was drafted in the lockout year. I thought we wouldn't have another one until after I retired. Then it was nice, because the KHL is the best."

She couldn't help herself. "And Bäckström?"

He laughed. "We got a longer break for Christmas, he liked it too. Also, how else would he have properly learned Russian?"

DD would never have the balls or the insensitivity to ask the question she really wanted an answer to, but she couldn't help but poke fun at him. "By going to university. How far is Sweden away from Russia? One tiny little channel?"

He laughed. "Of course, Nicky could have been a schoolboy. But then he'd be sad- have you ever played hockey?"

Depending on the person who asked, this was either her favourite or least favourite question to answer. She undid the buttons on her white dress shirt, and slid the fabric up to her bicep. Four team names were tatooed in rings around her bicep, and she couldn't help but flex and really show them off. Clearview Colts- you never forget your childhood team, no matter how bitchy and idiotic the other parents were. Terrace Kermodes, for her first team that actually wanted her and she had to be good to play with them. Prince George Capitals, for the first team she tried out for and made. Lastly, for the Calgary Dinos, the U of Calgary women's team. She'd stolen the idea from [Seguin's Stanley Cup ribs](http://sunsetsandsandydreams.tumblr.com/post/139625441755/im-a-nice-person-go-google-his-body-issue-pics) and shamelessly made it her own. She knew nobody would ever acknowledge Clearview as a team (her younger sister, currently playing Women's U20 Hockey was convinced the tattoo was fake), so she stole it. Made it look pretty with a cute font, and now, it was a physical part of her. 

"I've played hockey since I was eight. I'm on the team here at the university too, and I'm not stopping anytime soon."

His smile was still going strong. "As you English say, once you're in, you can't get out." He thought about her words for a moment. "I'll never stop playing, [the Russian Machine never breaks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_Machine_Never_Breaks)," he said with a loony grin, and DD couldn't help but grin back. 

Hockey idols. There must have been hearts in her eyes. "Your hockey is beautiful," she found herself saying. "I want to have your wrist shot. And just the general way you carry the puck- I want it."

He shrugged. "There's a secret to playing great hockey," he said, a faraway expression in his eyes.

"Bullshit. You're born with talent or you're not."

"No, no, serious- it's simple. [If you go to ice and think, 'I must score' or 'I must get some points,' you won't score or get any points. You must go and play and don't think about it.](http://www.azquotes.com/author/25477-Alexander_Ovechkin?p=2) Hockey is about not thinking and the people who can not-think the best are the best."

He did it. He left it wide open and DD couldn't resist. "So you're saying that you don't think a lot?" She asked, an innocent as hell expression on her face.

"Not on the- ," he cut himself off. "You didn't."

DD's innocent expression was back. "I did, whatcha gonna do about it?"

"Not give anyone anymore advice. Rude Canadian."

"We exist. Also, before I forget the name- you wanted Marusya vodka, right?"

Ovechkin was subtly reminded that she was the bartender, he was 31 to her 20, and she probably had a better taste for vodka than he did. Christina had found that most Russians were only good at drinking vodka, not at tasting it. Also, when she fumbled the pronunciation of a word thirty seconds after returning with his vodka (Marusya was one of the ones marked with a red dot on the cap, which meant it was nearly in the unswallowable category), he remembered that she wasn't a natural Russian speaker, which threw him off again.

Eventually, around one-thirty because she was a sucker for hockey players, she closed the bar. DD did Shawn a favor and snuck the bottle of Marusya to Bäckström, who was clearly the one in charge of making sure everyone got back to the hotel in one piece. Ovechkin was toasted even after she'd cut him off at 12:45 for her own sake, not his. She suspected that someone had given him their own shots, and he was therefore drunker than six shots of vodka warranted. Bäckström didn't look too impressed by the gift, even with it wrapped up, but she couldn't care. She'd snuck a quarter shot of it behind the bar, just to see if it was categorized properly and it was. 

Why Shawn took care to import that brand was beyond her, but giving Ovechkin the bottle also meant he got her Instagram name written on sharpie over the ingredients, which she could actually all read. DD allowed herself that one fangirl moment, and maybe if she was lucky he had a hidden Insta account with golden Ovie quotes in Russian all over it. She was allowed to dream, right?

||

It ended up taking approximately twenty minutes for the team to clear out. DD would be ashamed of them for not being able to walk out, but she was pretty sure Orlov had also snuck extra shots and Galiev was struggling to shoulder his weight. By then, she'd learned that the two she didn't know where Tom Wilson and Micheal Latta. Wilson had the alcohol tolerance of a child, and Latta looked like he was tempted to actually carry the man since he wasn't helping out at all. She kicked them all out so she could do the final rounds of tidying up which wouldn't have happened with all nine of them still in the bar. 

TJ Oshie was also white girl wasted, and clearly enough that he was getting personally babysat by Bäckström. He was the last to leave and was still on the sidewalk, leaning sluggishly against the wall when she stepped outside the bar. When the cab came, DD was locking the front doors. She could barely make out drunken whine as Bäckström shoved him into a cab, and then walked around to the other side. It didn't matter that it barely reached her ears- TJ Oshie suddenly lost all her respect.

Oshie rolled down the window in the minus fifteen degree weather, stuck his head out, and whined, "[My guys! Where are my _guys?_](https://www.instagram.com/p/BAIBXNPDPvl/)" 

She almost face-palmed, even more so when she saw his head jet jerked back inside, and the window go back up. She could make out exactly nothing that was said inside the cab but it still took her a moment to unfreeze and think over what she'd just seen. DD stared at the cab before yanking the key out of the lock and storming off to her own car.

Professional hockey players, yeah right. More like overgrown children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best thing I've learned in six ish months of CH living- don't do anything you don't want to do. Don't take Russian and the U of Calgary unless you think it's as cool as I do, and you could see yourself loving the Russian alphabet because oh my gosh, I'm so thankful German uses the same alphabet and is essentially more advanced English grammar if you want to go there. But on the other hand, if you want to be a doctor, you could take this as your first four years...
> 
> But again, it's a solid idea but not a must do.
> 
> Happy sixteenth and the other half plus you päckli is coming eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from two great Nate Ruess songs because I'm a not so secret asshole. Also, I love you a lot, and I don't care if you take Russian at the U of Calgary because omg why not, if you're actually going to be a doctor it would actually work BUT if you want to study archaeology in Virginia, do it, because the best think I've learned on exchange is you can't dedicate yourself to things you don't actually like. So enjoy the easter eggs, have a nice dream or two of being fluent in Russian, but if you die knowing only one language I'm not going to judge you (that much)(please learn a second just any language it's good for you).
> 
> Happy sixteenth! PASS YOUR DRIVERS TEST


End file.
